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The River House
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Ahead there’s a noise and chaos of geese and swans on the path: an old man in a tattered coat is scattering bread from a bag, undeterred by the rain. With the birds all clustering round he’s a figure from an engraving, from one of Ursula’s fairy tales, at once grotesque and beneficent, the sort of man who might give you three gifts or three wishes. Scattering crusts, paying us no attention, around him the flurry of wings.
The river path curves. We’re out of sight of the car park and the old man. The trees hang low over the path here. A pigeon startles through the tree canopy above us, with a sound like something torn. Will takes my hand and pulls me after him, in under the trees. Bramble bushes catch at my legs. We go in a long way, so we’re hidden from the path. There’s a place where the bushes open out a bit, though the branches are low over our heads, catching at our hair. The rain doesn’t penetrate here, but it’s wet underfoot, a thick shiny mulch of dead bracken and earth and leaves.
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